


Dissolve

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Comfort/Angst, Intergluteal Sex, M/M, Pining, Rimming, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 09:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are all kinds of problems with Albus being in love with his own brother; only one of those is that James seems to hate him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissolve

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Bring Back the Porn Challenge!
> 
> prompted me with "Albus/James, bed/room sharing, masturbation"… which this is not. :-/ Uh, there's a bedroom? Sorry! Have some hot smut with your angst. *headdesk*

James had always hated him and Albus knew it. Most of the time, when Albus caught James staring at him, there was a dark glower of resentment souring his expression. It didn't matter. Albus loved James. 

Albus loved James with everything he was.

 

There were a few times when Albus was made to question the intensity of James' dislike for him. Holidays and late nights were like time out of time for James, when, just sometimes, his hatred would simmer down to a very grudging brotherly tolerance. There were some Christmases where Albus' present from James turned out to be his favourite. It was never anything extravagant like his parents showered down on his head. But it was often something Albus thought no one in the world knew he wanted, and there it would be – a tiny bottle of the rose oil he used in his favourite potion (from Champagne roses, not red); his old soft wool socks darned (probably by Grandma, although, because of caring for his Quidditch leathers, James likely knew how as well) rather than new socks that were never as soft or beloved; things of that nature – always with a plain card:

_From James._

Never 'Love'. Always 'From'. Albus' heart would still swell.

And the late nights. Albus would often study in the living room until he passed out from exhaustion. His parents tended to act as though Albus were a prodigy of some kind – he could have aced his O.W.L.s third year if they'd have let him sit for them – but it wasn't natural ability. He was a Slytherin; it was one hundred percent ambition. 

James, on the other hand, was pure russet-haired, Quidditch-honed Gryffindor. Things _did_ come naturally for him, just not _all_ things. He seemed happy with half Exceeds Expectations and half Acceptables while hardly trying – probably because he was extraordinary on a broom, so no accomplishment other than winning the Quidditch Cup meant much.

James had the broad shoulders of someone who'd thrown a thousand Quaffles as hard as he could and like every single one counted. And beyond broad, they were constantly kissed golden by the sun, so that his freckles seemed to have fused together.

And there were some nights when, at two or three in the morning, Albus would awaken in his own bed, knowing without a doubt he'd fallen asleep on the sofa downstairs. There was no one else strong or big enough to carry Albus, despite his slighter frame. No one other than James. Albus would lift a groggy head, be briefly disoriented, and then smell the hint of sun-warmed apricot that James left behind wherever he went, which meant he'd been practicing in the fields behind the house again. Albus would smell that scent on himself, and he'd know. He wouldn't remember – Albus was a frightfully deep sleeper – so he'd be forced to imagine: His brother lifting him from the sofa, a book sliding off his lap and toppling to the floor; a heave of James' strong arms, maybe a muffled grunt, and Albus would be safely held against his chest; soft, slow footsteps up the stairs as Albus got carried to his own bed, fast asleep.

And oh how he wished one day to wake.

 

Albus' big secret: Sometimes he'd sleep in James' bed when he was away. Never at night. He'd only take a kip there on summer afternoons when James would head off into the countryside to meet friends for a Quidditch scrimmage, or, if it was too hot, go have syrupy sodas and greasy popcorn at a Muggle cinema.

Albus' friends liked playing chess, making potions, tending to plants, and caring for magical creatures. He got on well with a group of Ravenclaws he'd met second year, but they weren't exactly the type to call on for summer afternoon antics and such. Plus, they were coming into their sixth year in the Fall; none of them were into the leisure activities of children anymore, yet they weren't cool enough to join James and his friends to goof about Hexing each other and knocking Bludgers into each others' brooms. Albus' friends avoided brooms (and Bludgers) at all costs.

So Albus spent a lot of his summer days helping around the house or in their pathetic excuse for a garden. He read a lot, and he made potions, and he daydreamed of what his life might be like after Hogwarts. If James hadn't hated him so much, Albus would have very much liked to get a flat with him. James would play professional Quidditch, and Albus would get a job at Flourish and Blotts or maybe apprenticing to become a wand maker. They'd fight over who ate the last of the crisps and which one of them had been meant to buy more coffee and forgotten.

They'd watch the telly until late into the night, side by side on the sofa. Albus would inevitably fall asleep, his head drooping onto James' shoulder. 

And in Albus's fantasies, when James would take him to bed, it would be to his own.

 

It's August. One month to Hogwarts. It felt like it was in the future for so long, and now it's nearly here.

James is gone for the day, looking at flats with Dad. Mum and Lily are out shopping with Aunt Hermione.

Alone in the silent house, Albus is aware of every creak of every board, of how his breathing sounds. He turns on the Wireless and tries to get into a show about potions misshaps but within two minutes, he turns it off again. 

A bird sings in the tree beyond the living room window. It's the elm that reaches up past James' bedroom, the one Dad trims every so often so that it doesn't scratch across the roof and make everyone think they've got long-fingernailed ghouls as attic residents.

Dad is better at dispelling ghouls than trimming trees, and Albus can hear the faint movement of a branch against the eaves when the breeze picks up.

He checks the clock – the whole family is stuck at Errands. He sighs and heads upstairs.

Entering James' room is like going into a Gringotts vault. Or usually it is. Albus hasn't been in here in a while, and he's surprised to find most of James' belongings already packed away in trunks. Albus makes his way slowly between them like manouvering through a maze.

There are still a few things out: some of his old school books with a parchment stuck to them, "H & L" scribbled on it, meaning James intends to pass them down to Hugo and Lily when they need them; the old broken lamp that James kept in order not to hurt Aunt Fleur's feelings as it's some sort of family heirloom that she, for whatever reason, wanted James to have. It's ugly as shit, though, so Albus guesses James plans to "accidentally" leave it here when he goes.

Albus runs his fingers over the edge of James' desk, glancing around at the walls, bare of his Quidditch posters; the silent waiting of boxes to be hefted; James' unmade bed, warm in a shaft of golden afternoon light streaming through the window.

Emotion crawls into Albus' throat. He's so tired all of a sudden. The speed of his brother's potential leaving has exhausted him.

He'll just lie down for a bit, he thinks. He won't even close his eyes. He just wants to feel enveloped in James one more time, the smell of him permanently living in his sheets no matter how many times they're washed.

Albus wonders how it would all feel – the sunlight, the worn cotton, the smell of apricots – on his bare skin.

Funny how a passing thought, or what you thought was passing, becomes, in a breath, an obsession.

Albus strips slowly, as though the empty bed is a waiting lover. He drops his trousers to the floor in a heap, takes down his pants, his breathing going quick and guilty. Albus sinks onto the bed, rolling to his back. He drapes an arm over his face to mute the light. His hand slips shyly down his stomach, cups his flaccid cock. He pulls it half-hard and then stops himself, curling onto his side in guilt and a sudden sadness.

He lets the sun lull him through it, taking deep, slow breaths until he forgets everything but the sensations themselves, until it feels like maybe the earth quits turning, slowing to a merciful stop.

 

He's not exactly asleep when he hears the crack of Apparition, but to go from relaxed to the point of coma to this sort of startling panic makes the adrenaline shooting through him almost sickening.

The disgust in his brother's voice doesn't help matters. "W-what are you doing in here?"

 _Forgot where my room was_ doesn't seem a believable reply, and Albus can't make his mouth work anyway. 

James' eyes glance down, widen. Albus had sat bolt upright, and the sheets puddle around his thighs, his naked body on display. He pulls the sheet to his waist quickly as James gulps, and a fiercely thunderous look descends over his features. "What the bloody fuck are you doing?"

"Jamie, I didn't— I'm s—"

"Three days."

"What?"

James shakes his head in this incredulous fashion that just looks so bloody sad. It plummets Albus' heart into his stomach. "Three. Days."

Albus reaches for the pile of his clothes beside the bed.

"Don't." The quiet threat in his brother's voice stops him mid-reach. James takes a step forward. "Albie what are you doing here?" One long exhalation of words. Eyes as dark as winter yet not as cold. Not nearly. In fact, they're _burning_.

"I—" Albus gets out past the lump in his throat.

Suddenly, James grabs the sheet and yanks it down Albus' legs. Instinctively, Albus covers himself with his hands. It's stupid really. He's dreamed of this. Not exactly this. Not what he's sure is coming, but Merlin, to be so close to what he wants and miss touching it… To actively hide from the very person he craves.

But then James says, "Show me."

"Jamie?"

James' gaze cuts to Albus' face, and Albus sees the tears shimmering in his eyes.

Albus hesitates, breathless, and then moves his hands, planting them by his hips on the mattress, perhaps ready to spring. 

But then James' gaze travels down his chest, heaving with hard, shallow breaths; down his stomach like the touch of fingertips so that Albus reflexively tightens his muscles; down. Down between his legs where Albus' cock, horribly, begins to swell from his brother's attention on it alone.

Albus watches James' face closely, the angry flush that still resides on his cheeks, something like anguish and heat warring in his eyes.

Anguish and heat, replacing the forever hatred.

Albus' cock twitches, and James gasps. He stands there looking at the plump of Albus' blooming erection, with Albus hardly breathing, and then James grips the hem of his t-shirt and – _Merlin fuck_ – he strips it over his head, letting it drop.

Albus watches, dumbfounded, as James starts unfastening his jeans. And then, voice rough with emotion, he says, "Turn over."

Albus doesn't question it – he can't – and at James' urging he slides over onto his stomach, his prick pressing into the bedding. He lies there prone in the afternoon light, listening to the rustle of denim behind him and biting his lip.

There's a dip in the mattress as James joins him. _Oh my god._ Before he's processed any of it, there are strong hands gripping his thighs where they meet his hips and hauling him to his knees. A grunt pushes from Albus' lungs. A sigh of something like fear and pleasure combined follows. 

Then James' hands on his arse. Those big, strong hands. The squeak of the springs and Albus feels his breath. Albus' hands tighten in the sheets just before James' tongue licks a warm, wet path from his perineum, up over his anus, to his lower back.

Albus cries out, immediately turning his face into the bed to muffle it. James' thumbs, close to his hole, pull him gently open, and then his tongue, precise but soft at his rim, flicks around, prods patiently, and licks inside.

Albus groans, pulling a pillow to his mouth. He's shaking.

James rises up behind him. His voice is so steady as he uses wandless magic – lubrication flooding the crack of Albus' arse, a privacy charm. His cock slides over Albus' entrance, not the tip, but the length, back and forth with easy rolls of his hips.

"Tell me no."

Albus pants into the pillow. He's harder than he's ever been. He might come from one stroke of James' cock inside him. 'No' is the last thing he wants.

James' hand slams down on his arse, and the sudden sting makes Albus cringe before the endorphins rush and warm him. 

"Tell me." And this time, Albus can hear the desperation James has been concealing, the telling tremble beneath his words.

Albus widens his knees. 

He arches his back. 

"Y-yes."

James groans, takes his cock in hand, and, without stopping, presses slow inside him. 

"Oh god, oh god…" Albus gasps, simply holding himself in position while his brother mounts him.

James collapses over Albus' back, bottoming out, hands bracketing Albus' shoulders as he starts a dirty, rutting fuck.

Albus is so _full_. He burns with ache, and the friction inside him, the way James' cock brushes that place that lights him up… It's the best thing he's ever felt – until James' mouth descends to the middle of his back, lips touching, and he starts whispering things Albus can't quite make out, pressing kisses to his skin even as his hips whip and he drives Albus so close to coming.

Albus dissolves for it, for him, for this. This brutal, possessive, tender thing. James groans against his back, and Albus feels so strangely proud that he's giving his brother pleasure. To his knowledge, it's the first time he's been able to do so.

"Al-bie," James whispers, and that does it, for both of them. Albus feels James' hot semen flood his insides, his cock pulsing. It rips through him, too, and Albus undulates, fucking himself back on James' cock, neither of them touching his, as he comes across the sheets, splattering his chest as his cock bounces against his belly. 

Albus moans loudly through to the end, unable to contain it and tearing his throat. James' hand smoothes over his hair, pulls slightly, and then his lips open against the side of Albus's neck, panting, a soft bite, a lingering kiss.

And then James pulls out. He moves away. Albus falls to his side, hips aching as he slowly closes his legs. James sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

"You said yes," he mutters quietly.

Albus rolls slowly onto his back. Slowly so as not to frighten James away. He seems ready to bolt at the least provocation, even as Albus' heart thuds, rejoicing with every ecstatic beat. "I said yes," he agrees.

"I had three days." James shakes his head. He turns so that Albus can see his profile, but he doesn't lift his eyes. "Three days and I would have made it out, Al. Why—" He stops himself, his jaw set. He drops his head again. "Why'd you have to be in here? Why did you tell me yes?"

Albus sits up cautiously. "James. I've been trying to say yes to you my whole fucking life."

James' shoulders stiffen, but he doesn't move, and Albus takes it as, at least, not a bad sign. He moves closer, one leg bent behind his brother's back, the other foot on the floor. His hand hovers but then lights on James' back. James flinches. He ducks his head away, but he doesn't otherwise move.

Albus scoots closer. He presses his lips to his brother's shoulder. "Jamie."

"We can't." James sounds miserable.

"You don't have to say yes," Albus tells him, the words, the very idea, coming the moment before he knows he wants to speak. He says it as his lips move against James' skin. "Just don't say no."

A shuddering sigh moves them both. James lifts his head, turns it, and looks down at Albus. Albus lifts his eyes and looks up at his brother frowning there. Then James reaches up and tucks some of Albus' hair behind his ear, watching the movement of his own hand. His lips descend to the top of Albus' head and press there. He sighs, opens his arms, and, with no more talk, Albus moves into his embrace. He fits there easily, guilelessly, and James' strong hand strokes up and down his back.

Like yes and no at the same time. 

Like stopping the clock.


End file.
